Today the dishes are piled in the sink. The same load of clean towels, messy and unfolded is in the laundry basket as it was yesterday. The mail and scribbled notes are piled on the kitchen counter. I am on the sofa, sitting in silence after reading another personalized, encouraging rejection.
I hear the dehumidifier’s rhythmic hum and wonder why I don’t have a simple “on” switch. Right now I want to bring physical order. I want to work hard. I’m still sitting here.
Birds chirp as they build their springtime nests outside the windows I thought about washing two weeks ago. Neighbors pass by with their dogs charging forward, living to please. I’m still sitting. My husband is in a meeting, working hard. My son is in school, working hard. Everyone I know is working hard. I am sitting.
Writing often re-opens a scab in my thoughts. I think “this time it won’t hurt,” but then it’s ripped off and leaves me raw again. I try to heal, but creativity is a silent addiction. I don’t want to be this way. Why can’t I have an “off” switch?
In writing, there are no absolutes. There are only interpretations. Being good isn’t enough. Being great only gets you so far. Being brilliant is necessary.
Brilliance is then flung out like a handful of pick-up-sticks. Maybe I’ll win the game this time. Maybe the beautiful, hand-carved sticks will land in a slush pile and never be touched again…
I reach for the laundry basket.